Sexual Harm: It's Not "Them," It's "Us"

Most of us have been taught to fear the stranger in the dark alley, the lurking “predator,” or the “pervert” in the white van. They all embody a narrative that has been reinforced by media and public policy, including the post-conviction policies utilized across the United States. Sex offense registries, which include information on almost 800,000 people, perpetuate this narrative.

Yet, for the vast majority of people who experience sexual harm, the person responsible is no stranger. They are a friend. A partner. A classmate. A colleague. A family member.

And the ordinariness of that difference changes everything.

Data consistently shows us that victims of various forms of sexual harm know the person who harmed them. For example, according to the 2024 National Crime Victimization Survey (NCVS), just under 80% of those who experienced rape or sexual assault knew the person who harmed them. For child victims, that percentage is closer to 90%. Despite these consistent statistics year after year, our public policies, prevention campaigns, and collective imagination still revolve around stranger danger.

Sex offense registries, for example, are built on the idea that sexual harm comes from “outsiders” who we must monitor and exclude to keep the rest of us safe. While registries make people feel secure, they actually don’t make us any safer. They create a false sense of security, reinforcing the fear of the stranger rather than actually preventing the sexual harms that are occurring day after day.

Our systems reflect our myths.

Sex offense registries, mandatory minimums, and punitive restrictions focus on the stranger and not the culture that normalizes everyday sexual harm.

Everyday sexual harm — the coercive comment, the boundary crossed, the betrayal by a trusted friend — rarely makes headlines. These are not just isolated incidents, but a pervasive reality that many individuals face daily. Everyday sexual harm — both verbal and physical — shapes lives. It distorts intimacy, shatters trust, and leaves survivors carrying invisible burdens.

Because this kind of harm doesn’t match the “ideal victim” narrative, survivors often question their own reality. They ask themselves:

• Was that really assault?

• Did I do something to invite it?

• If I still love this person, does that mean it wasn’t harm?

Survivors often minimize or dismiss harm that is perpetrated by someone they know or trust. They often think, “It wasn’t that bad,” or “Maybe I misunderstood.” It is a tragic paradox. The same collective imagination that leads us to believe that strangers are responsible for sexual harm leads to survivors believing that the harm they do experience is somehow “less than.”

Survivors learn something that most of us need to learn. The problem of sexual harm is “us,” not “them.” Every single one of us is capable of causing this harm. It is not the boogeyman in the basement.

Burdened by this dissonance, silence becomes the norm.

And profound moral and emotional conflict ensues.

Survivors may not want punishment, exile, or public humiliation. When they do come to terms with the harm they experienced, they often want acknowledgment, safety, and repair. Or they may simply want the behavior to stop.

Meanwhile, policies that could truly prevent harm, including comprehensive consent education, restorative justice programs, community-based interventions, and trauma-informed support, remain underfunded or ignored.

By externalizing harm to strangers “out there,” we absolve ourselves from asking more complex questions:

• How are power and silence maintained in our homes, workplaces, schools, and faith communities?

• How do gender norms, shame, and fear shape the ways we teach children about consent and boundaries?

• How can we create pathways for truth-telling and repair when harm happens between people who love each other?

Our current systems rarely offer that. The binary of victim and perpetrator leaves no room for the messy reality of human relationships, where accountability and care can coexist.

Restorative and transformative justice practices offer an alternative. They invite survivors to define what healing means for them and provide pathways for those who have caused harm to take responsibility in meaningful, relational ways. These practices are not just theoretical concepts, but practical solutions that can bring about real change. They are not easy, nor are they a fit for every case, but they remind us that justice must be as relational as the harm itself.

If we truly want to prevent sexual harm, we must move beyond policies that make us feel safe and toward practices that make us actually safe.

That means:

• Listening to survivors, especially those whose experiences don’t fit neat legal categories.

• Challenging myths that only strangers harm or that love and violence can’t coexist.

• Reinvesting in education, community accountability, and trauma-informed care.

• Creating spaces where survivors can speak without fear that their disclosures will erode their communities.

Safety begins when we acknowledge that harm lives close to home and that justice, when done right, does too.

When we design systems that only see the “worst” kind of sexual violence, we erase the most common type. And when survivors don’t see their experiences reflected in our policies or our language, they are left to carry that invisibility alone.

It’s time to broaden our vision, to understand that sexual harm is not just something that happens out there, but something that can happen among us. If we want to build communities where everyone can heal, we must start by telling the truth about where harm really lives.